


My Favorite Things

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [5]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 22:07:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14680446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: When a conversation intended to while away another rainy day in Barracks 2 turns to what each thinks of as their favorite thing, some surprising insights are revealed.  Even Sergeant Kinchloe finds himself caught up in their reminiscing and reveals more about himself than he intended, and finds himself slightly more sympathetic to their brash Englishman than usual.  That is, until waiting for part of the team to return from a mission gives Newkirk time to get on Kinch's last nerve.  Will Christmas, a difficult time for everyone, especially a moody Newkirk, improve that relationship, or will it prove the last straw?





	My Favorite Things

They'd been talking about their favorite things. Well, it wasn't where the conversation started, but it was where it ended up. It wasn't as if they had much else to do. It was raining cats and dogs, as Olsen commented, and of course, that led in to a long soliloquy by Carter about how he wished it really was raining cats and dogs, "wouldn't that be neat??!"

Kinch had refrained from rolling his eyes, though Olsen and the Colonel hadn't, and Newkirk gave one of his irritated groans and let out an impatient "and just w'at would we do with 'undreds of cats and dogs, Andrew? Sides give the fleas something else to munch on sides us," scratching at the seam of his jacket. Carter went on for another five minutes about how they could train the creatures for carrying messages and planting explosives and decoying the Germans away while the guys did their jobs and, well, probably a lot more, and besides they would be really warm to cuddle up to on cold nights, but Kinch had pretty much stopped listening by then. He was finding some amusement in watching the faces of the other guys as they listened to the sometimes almost child-like American Sergeant ramble on and on enthusiastically.

Newkirk finally put an end to it with a crisp, "and they could stink up the place even more than it already does soon as they get out and get wet, and the first time one a them gets 'urt doing something like that, we'll never 'ear the end of your carrying on, Andrew!"

That caused the younger man to stop talking for a minute, thoughts flickering across his face. "Wow! I never thought of that, Newkirk! You're right, I wouldn't want any of them to get hurt!"

Newkirk was muttering to himself, "no, wouldn't want any of the bloody cats and dogs to get all bunged up, let's leave that to us, why don't we!" Kinch had thought Carter's ramblings rather endearing, and found Newkirk's putting a crimp in them annoying, but then, he found a lot of what Newkirk did annoying, and Carter seemed to get over any ill-feelings, if he had any, immediately. Well, Carter always seemed to get over his ill-feelings, if he really ever had any, really quickly, and especially where Newkirk was concerned. Kinch would've thought even the good-natured young Sergeant would be fed up with all the harrassment and complaining and badgering he got from the sardonic Cockney, but he never seemed to get to that point. Sometimes Kinch had the weird feeling Carter even sort of liked it.

They were going through a new batch of subjects, but rejecting most of them because they'd been covered pretty thoroughly during yesterday's rainstorm, and any others, well, it had been raining for almost a week now. Finally, the conversation drifted to one of their regulars, My Favorite Thing, with the caveat it couldn't be something that they had talked about for the past week. THEY, not necessarily one of the others, so it still left some room for basic repetition of topics, but boded well for some new material to surface.

Olsen, prohibited from talking about dogs, revealed his love of movies, "I used to spend every extra cent I had on them; one summer I went back to school paler than when I left, from spending all those days inside. I even got the guy who ran the projector to let me help him, and I got to see most everything at least four or five times." He smiled a smile of contentment, remembering, "The Wizard of Oz, Bringing Up Baby, City Lights, The Thin Man, It Happened One Night, Lady for a Day . . . I really liked those, but there were so many. Even the ones I didn't really like, I liked being there, you know? The smell of popcorn, the whirl of the machines, the sounds of people rustling in their seats and laughing, the way they left all talking about what they'd seen. Those were some good days." That led to him telling the plot to a couple he'd mentioned that no one else had seen and that passed another half hour or so. 

LeBeau, as could have been expected, centered his favorite thing around cooking, but this time about herbs. They heard more than they really wanted to about 'Herbes de Provence', or as Newkirk called them as he griped once more about the subject chosen, "you mean, another bunch of that smelly stuff you insist in dropping in our food". Considering just how hard LeBeau worked to give them some decent meals, that seemed more than a little ungrateful, but it only garnered a sniff and a toss of that dark head, along with "as if an Englishman knows anything about fine food!"

Carter had been next, but said he wanted to think about what he chose more, so passed the baton to the Colonel, who'd been leaning against the wall to his quarters, looking amused at the conversation. They were all a little curious about what the Colonel would choose; after all, his favorite topic, the one he seemed to share with Newkirk, was women, and he'd covered that pretty well over the past few days. A slow smile came across Hogan's handsome face, "lace. I've always liked lace." That got a few raised eyebrows, and one long groan, low, but still a groan, from Newkirk.

"Let me guess, sir. Lace, as in worn by a woman, maybe a pretty blond?" A superior look came to their Commander, "actually, Corporal, I'm not that narrow-minded. A brunette would do nicely."

A laugh from each of the men, and a quip from Olsen, "what about a redhead, Colonel? Make do with one of those as well if you have to?" and was a little taken aback by the flash of displeasure, quickly hidden, that crossed Hogan's face; well, Olsen had been 'outside' during that little visit from Caeide.

"No, Olsen, redheads don't appeal so much. Bad-tempered, untrustworthy lot, I've found." Olsen risked a quick look around, Kinch as well, but LeBeau, Carter and Newkirk had somewhere else to direct their gaze - the floor, the ceiling - just elsewhere.

<>p>"Anyway, as I was saying, lace, on a dress, or maybe used to tie back long, silky hair. Lace, mixed with silk on certain unmentionable items. I think it's the mixture of the solid and the transparent, you know, it promises so much." He went into a long spiel about a pretty blond he'd known who'd had an absolute fetish for lace, included it in her wardrobe wherever she could. "First time I took her out was to this big society party, and when she took her long coat off, that dress, all pale blue lace. She seemed surprised by all the gasps and looks and talk til she looked in the mirror and you could have heard her shriek all the way to Minneapolis! The dress, like I said, it was lace, all of it, but it was MEANT to be worn over a long satin underdress, and she'd forgotten to put THAT part on, and it seemed she wasn't one for wearing unmentionables so everyone could see all the way to her skin, I mean, everywhere!" He laughed, "bet she never tried telling anyone she was a natural blonde after that! Took her home, spent the rest of the night convincing her I liked the dress just fine, and it wasn't such a big deal, no one would give her a rough time over just a little oversight. She was really grateful that I was so understanding and appreciative. What a night!"

LeBeau asked, "did she wear the dress again, mon colonel?"

Hogan gave a casual shrug, said in an offhand manner, "don't know, never saw her again. Hell, crowd never stopped laughing about it; she moved to Chicago or somewhere. Anyway, wouldn't have looked good for me to be connected to such a ditz; wasn't going to let any of that affect me." That got a laugh, though perhaps somewhat of an uneasy one, and Kinch could see the men were laughing more because it was expected than because they thought it was funny. Well, he wasn't really comfortable either, but he shrugged; Colonel Hogan was Colonel Hogan, not an ordinary guy; you had to give him some leeway. If Kinch stopped to wonder why he was willing to give Hogan such leeway and not one or two of his other team mates, he could have given you a whole slew of reason, some of them even making sense. 

The Colonel seemed to have reached his limit of listening to their nonsense, decided he needed to go check up on what the Kommandant was up to, and left, pulling his collar up around his neck as he dashed through the rain toward the Officer's quarters. The atmosphere seemed to ease somewhat, and they looked around, determining who was next in line.

Newkirk sat back, thinking, before he spoke up. "Silly, I spose, but I like the old stories, you know. Selkies, travelers w'at get turned into swans or deer or such, dragons and mermaids and brownies, three wishes and fairy curses and magic coins. Gruesome, some of them, but still, they ease my mind some'ow. Put me in mind of quiet times, a warm fire, a bit of drink in my 'and."

"Did your parents tell you stories like that?" Carter asked, and Newkirk flushed, "nay, Andrew. Me Mum never 'ad time for that, that I can recall, though she'd sing to us sometimes, 'ad a right beautiful voice, she did, and my father . . ." Newkirk gave a not-quite-amused hrummphh, "only stories 'e'd be likely to tell were those 'e dreamed up after a go at the bottle, and then usually accompanied by a swing of 'is fist for you interrupting them. No, 'ad a friend who liked such, told a lot of 'em on rainy nights. I always used to pretend I didn't like them, thought them a silly thing to be telling, but never really meant it. Just thought it was too childish to admit I liked them all, you know."

LeBeau thought to comfort him, "well, most children like such tales, even English children; it's hardly something to be ashamed of."

Newkirk gave an embarrassed grin, "well . . ." and Carter giggled, somehow just knowing, asking, "and just how old WERE you, Newkirk," getting a snapped, "just never you mind, Andrew Carter!" with a deep flush, and they all laughed, realizing Newkirk hadn't actually been a child at that time. Well, not that they could know, of course, but Newkirk hadn't really been a child for a long time before that, from long before his mother had died when he was well under ten years of age. Between his sot of a father and the East End, childhood had been only a brief flash in his existence.

Newkirk was drawn back to the present when Carter asked eagerly, "can you tell us some of the stories sometime? I mean, when we aren't doing something else?" and although Newkirk moaned and bitched about being signed up for providing future entertainment, he had just a slight smile about him, like he might enjoy doing just that.

Kinch just shook his head, thinking to himself, {"of all the people who would admit to liking fairy tales, somehow Peter Newkirk is just about the last one I'd think of."} Still, it might make a change from the other stories they told each other, something to relieve a bit of the monotony.

Carter, for some reason, surprised them just as much when he passed, again. "I'm just having a hard time coming up with something I haven't talked about before," he admitted. Well, Kinch could see that; Carter talked so much, about so many different things, that he just may have covered the subject pretty thoroughly. So, Kinch took his turn. It had come to him while listening to the others, waiting for it to be his turn.

"Waiting, I've always liked waiting." The others looked at him in confusion, not understanding, and there being no reason they would, of course. He smiled, "I remember waiting for my father to get home from work so I could sit cross-legged on the floor in front of his chair and he'd listen to me tell him about my day, and then he'd tell me about his. Took me a long time before I realized he'd made up most of his, there not being a lot suitable for telling a kid about his days working as a day laborer. I remember going with my mom grocery shopping and to get her hair done. In the grocery store I'd stay with her, but while she was at the beauty shop, she'd sit me on the bench outside with a little bag of hard candies she'd somehow scraped together enough pennies to buy me. I'd sit and wait, watch everyone going by, listening to the conversations, making up stories to fill in the first and last parts that I never got to hear, eating my candy and waiting for her to come out, her hair all tight against her head. I used to ask her if it didn't hurt, what they did inside that shop, and she'd just laugh and tell me, "your father likes my hair this way, Jamie, so a little pain is worth it."

"Waiting for summer to come, for school to be out, thinking of all the things I'd do, like maybe go to the State Fair or go to that summer camp I heard some of the kids talk about, maybe get to ride a horse; I never got to do a lot of those things, well, really any of them except that one year I was with a bunch of kids that got sent away to the country for a three-day camp with the church, but boy, I sure enjoyed the waiting, thinking maybe I'd get to do them. I remember waiting for the Fourth of July, counting down the days from the middle of June, just waiting for the fireworks. See, while I was waiting, I could pretend the fireworks would be bigger and better than they ever were, that they would maybe give away some of those sparklers I saw the other kids with; could pretend all the hot dogs and popcorn and pretzels and everything, that THIS year, they'd just be giving them away, and I could have all I wanted."

"Just like I waited, counting down the days til Christmas, then, the hours from Christmas Eve on, pretending that THIS year, Santa would find our house even though we didn't have a fireplace. We always got presents, but always things our parents got for us, or more likely, made for us. I remember a cribbage set our father made, and a checker board with carved checkers, one time one of those jointed puppets on strings, a marionette, you know - we all really had fun with that; as tired as he was with all the hours he worked, he'd spent any free time he had whittling out those pieces. Mom would sew or knit, make a batch of fudge or peanut brittle and divide it up, wrapping each portion separately for each of us kids; one year she made little blank books, using the backs of used paper she got from her job, cutting and sewing one side for the binding - that, along with a box of colors and a new #2 pencil, that was a good present. We'd hear about Santa at school, but Dad always told us, "he's an old man, you know, set in ways, just like your grandfather is. Don't like doors for some reason, just flat out refuses to use one, and he's too fat for windows. Only comes down chimneys, and we don't have one of those." I always thought that was a real shame. But one of the neighborhood kids told me the fat guy wouldn't have come around there anyway, "he's white, you know; only visits white kids," and that made more sense than him being leary of doors and only liking chimneys."

Somehow the conversation had drifted away from where he'd intended it to go, from the look of sympathy in Carter's eyes. "Gee, Kinch, I don't think that's right. Santa's just not that kinda a guy, to leave you out just cause of your color! I mean, Santa never brought much to our house, I know, but he came, well, at least most years, even though we were part Indian. Well, that year my dad got hurt on a job, Santa didn't come, but my mom said that was cause he just didn't want to disturb dad's rest while he was so sick, clattering in with gifts and such. I remember that was the year I was really hoping for a dictionary, a Greek one or maybe Russian or something like that. I always thought it would be so neat to learn another language, but they didn't teach anything like that in the schools I went to, except one half-year Spanish class. Boy, I really wanted that dictionary!" shaking his head sadly. 

Newkirk was looking at the young man oddly, "you've not said your favorite thing, Andrew."

"Well, I guess it's learning new things, just like with that dictionary, especially things other people might not know or just might not think important. You know, maybe the old things that people used to know, used to know how to do, but just kinda forgot about when the world started changing. I always really liked that; the Shaman and the elders on the res talked a lot about the old stuff and I always tried to lean as much as I could," nodding to himself.

Kinch was a little surprised at the smile on Newkirk's face, not a mocking one like he'd halfway expected, but one of, well, almost gentle indulgence, understanding. "Well, Andrew, it's probably good if someone remembered such things; no telling when they might come in 'andy."

***

Sergeant Kinchloe thought back to that rainy afternoon now as he waited for Hogan and Carter and LeBeau to come back from that last mission. Newkirk was still here, his wrenched ankle not up to dealing with a long trapse through the woods and any possible climbing and running they might end up having to do. As usual, the Englishman was in a mood.

"Bloody 'ell, Kinch! Where the blazes are they??!" Well, they were three hours late, it was snowing like crazy, and it was a toss-up whether Klink would pull a surprise bed-check or stay huddled in his own cozy quarters. While they weren't hoping for the first, of course, the Kommandant had been known to do something off the wall on occasion, and wouldn't that just blow them out of the water, with three of the occupants of Barracks 2 unaccounted for! Still, Newkirk was acting like he was the only one worried; the Englishman had paced the Barracks til he'd gotten yelled at firmly, and he'd snapped at them, "alright, 'ave it your own way!" and at least settled in one spot. Funny, Kinch somehow thought the man was still pacing in his mind, even if his body was in one place.

Kinch lit another cigarette, smoking it nervously, glancing with irritation at the Cockney shuffling and reshuffling that worn deck of cards. He wanted to snap a little himself, demanding Newkirk stop that, but refrained, seeing how the waiting was wearing on the lanky Englishman just as much as it was on him. He tuned out the barrage of irritated comments coming from Carter's bunk; he'd wanted to ask why Newkirk didn't use his own bunk, why he had to sit, glowering like a gargoyle, leaning his back against the rails of the young Sergeant's bunk, but decided he didn't want to hear any more of Newkirk's bitching about the fact that HIS mattress wasn't as comfortable as Carter's. {"Whatever!"}

Waiting had been one of his favorite things, once upon a time. After his imprisonment here at Stalag 13, he knew he couldn't say that, not anymore. Now, waiting meant different things. It meant waiting for that idiot Klink to finish his posturing and lecturing and harranging while they all stood there in the heat or cold or rain, til the old geezer got tired of hearing his own voice. It meant waiting in the darkness for that guard to get past their position, so they could move in and get the job done. It meant waiting by the coffee pot, listening while Burkhaulter or, even worse, Hockstetter talked, maybe yelled, maybe saying the things that this time would let them know that they'd used up the last of their luck, that they were going to die in the next few minutes. And it meant waiting for the guys to come back from a job, waiting for the trap door to open, waiting to count the number of men coming in, not really breathing til you knew they'd all made it back safely, or at least, made it back breathing. 

The waiting came to an end when the knock came on the lower bunk, signaling Kinch and Newkirk that someone had arrived, anyway. They were tense as they counted the emerging bodies - one, two, three! A deep sigh of relief brought the two waiting men into unison for the first time that night. Carter was chattering away, as usual, though limping, that too pretty much as usual. LeBeau wasn't as voluble, but still had a smile on his face, though nothing like the smile of deep satisfaction on their leader's face.

"Everything go okay? We were worried, you're quite a bit over schedule," Kinch asked Hogan, as Newkirk, bitching as usual about their carelessness in "getting all banged up as usual!"fussed over Carter and LeBeau, frowning at the obvious odd bruise here and here, Carter's limp, that sneezing fit he just had, catching Newkirk in the full blast of the last one.

Kinch shook his head in disgust, thinking the Englishman could have let the men catch their breath before giving them a dressing down, one which he didn't have the rank to be giving them anyway. Hogan ignored all the byplay, nodding to his second-in-command, "like clockwork. Just had to spend some extra time making sure that new Underground contact was the real thing; couldn't risk her being another Gestapo plant."

Newkirk opined, in a casual way, "took that long to be sure, did it? All three of you working on it?"

Hogan repeated that smug smile, "well, no, I tackled that myself. Didn't want to put Carter and LeBeau at risk."

Carter spoke up, "LeBeau waited at a table in the Haufbrau, I kept in position in the alley, just to be sure no stray patrols came through."

"In this weather, Carter? You were standing in that bleedin' alley for three 'ours in the snow and cold and all? 'Ow bloody delightful! And you, Louie, no one questioned you taking up a table for that long?" giving Hogan a rather odd look.

"Now, Newkirk, don't forget, I was taking some pretty heavy risks myself," Hogan chuckled.

"Oh, acourse, as long as you were taking care of the important things. She a blonde or a brunette this time, sir?"

LeBeau piped up, "a blonde, with the prettiest blue eyes," and Carter nodded, "really pretty, Newkirk."

Newkirk nodded, "so, 'ow'd the two a you get yourselves knocked around? Tumble off the side of the roadway again, Andrew?"

The young man flushed, "well, these two guys, they cornered me out there, I think they intended to rob me, and luckily Louie saw it through the window, and it was kinda rough til he managed to sneak out and got down on all fours and tripped one of them. We left them tied up in a shed." Newkirk threw a brief, totally blank look at Hogan, then went back to his baring of their bruises, smearing on that ointment he kept for such purposes.

"Well, it's lucky you all managed alright, made it back," Kinch spoke hurriedly; he wasn't sure what was going through Newkirk's head and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Part of him thought the Englishman was jealous at Hogan getting some 'female companionship', another part was a little queasy at his suspicion that Newkirk was jealous, but perhaps for a rather different reason. And yet, neither of those quite had the ring of the real reason behind that odd look, and Kinch decided he was just too tired to figure it out.

He did wonder when LeBeau and Carter would have enough of Newkirk yaping at them, and just had to shake his head when all the sarcastic, complaining man got from them was an indulgent, "we are fine, ma mere, do not trouble yourself so," from LeBeau, and a cheeky grin from Carter along with a grateful, "but that ointment really feels good! Thanks!" Kinch just didn't understand how they could take all that bitching in such good spirits; it was almost as if they liked it, as crazy as that sounded!

***

Six weeks later Christmas came, just like the calendar dictated, as bleak as the previous ones for the most part. Newkirk was never a bundle of laughs as far as Kinch was concerned, and Christmas seemed to bring out the worst in him, but he seemed maybe a little less moody than last year, though he HAD kept slipping off by himself, giving the excuse, "just need some alone time, guys", and no one wanting to set the man off into one of his moods, everyone just accepted that.

Presents were exchanged within the barracks, tiny things they made themselves or had salvaged from their Red Cross packages, or somehow acquired, usually by means best not gone into too deeply. Usually Newkirk managed something, if only by dividing some of the precious Red Cross chocolate or other goodies; he never got deeply involved, indeed the holiday made him unaccountably nervous and depressed. Hogan got a bottle of aftershave from the Englishman, something actually commercially made, not one of their rather iffy home concoctions, with the explanation, "for the next time you 'ave to sweet talk one of the ladies, gov," all with a bland smile. Hogan acknowledged it and the other tokens from the rest of the men, and then went to join Klink for dinner in his quarters, with a chess game to follow. LeBeau had just returned from there, having prepared the dinner, but leaving it to Schultz to do the serving.

"I just hope Schultzie does not do so much tasting that there is nothing left!" he had laughed as he came in, shedding his wet coat. They settled down, Louie poured another small glass of the scavenged red wine for each of them, and started opening their own small presents. Most of the ones from Newkirk were pretty much what was expected, though much appreciated, of course. But this year, four of the men sat and looked in confusion at what was sitting on their lumpy excuse for a pillow, the packages not looking so much like a candy bar or anything else familiar.

Olsen opened his first, picked up the small hand-bound paper book, looked at it in puzzlement, as the hand-drawn pictures seemed much the same throughout the many pages. Then, he grinned, "a flip-book! Newkirk! Did you do this??"

The Englishman flushed, looking down at his lit cigarette, "aint much, Olsen. Just thought, since you like movies and all. That's where they got the idea, you know, things like that," and watched Olsen nod rapidly, pleasure evident in his young face. The others crowded around as he showed them how it worked, that the little dog pictured on each page, each page just a little bit different than the one previous, when he flipped the pages quickly with one thumb, well, that little dog went from a seated position to actually leaping up and jumping through a hoop held by a clown, (and that clown looked suspiciously familiar, down to the blue-green eyes and sly grin and outfit, white dots but with a base of RAF blue) to land safely on the other side.

"Gee, Newkirk! That's great!" Carter enthused.

The men were impressed, and reached eagerly for their own small offering on their own sorry excuse for a pillow. LeBeau puzzled over the thick hexagon of quilted fabric, turning it this way and that, "a trivet?", then holding it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes widening. "Herbs! Savory, thyme, lavender, bay, basil, oregano, and more!" He looked at Newkirk, his eyes wide, "where did you get these? How did you even know . . .?"

"Well, aint like you aint bloody well moaned over em enough, Louie! You unpick the stitching around the sides, there's some of the dry nasty stuff to use now - also some seed to plant, if you can find a place the Krauts won't get pissed bout you digging up. I can re-stuff it with scrap thread and such when you're finished." He watched the small Frenchman practically dancing with glee.

"You know this means more of that French cooking you hate, don't you?" Kinch couldn't resist teasing, impressed far more than he wanted to be by these two gifts, each showing both a keen knowledge of the recipients and an obvious intent to please.

"Yeah, well, into every life a little rain must fall, or so I've been told; guess that means French cooking along with all the rest," Newkirk grumbled.

Carter opened his own package - another book, bigger, regular typing paper size, bound at one side by careful stiches, mostly small but clear writing inside but with some drawings interspersed. His face was beaming, as he read the title page, " 'Maudie's Maunderings'. Is that your Maudie from the pub?"

"Well, she was likely to go on about some of the old ways, and some of the old stories she knew, and the odd things that 'appened sometimes. Thought you might like it," and while the look Newkirk used to accompany that was very casual, it was obvious he was anxious to see if Andrew was pleased; Kinch could see there'd been a hell of a lot of work going into the making of that book, like with Olsen's and LeBeau's gifts.

"Gee, Peter! Thanks!" and it was obvious the young American was thrilled.

Kinch was rather hesitant about his own, rather lumpy package; he and Newkirk, well, they didn't have the same relationship the irrascible man had with the others, and he expected his to be much the same as the other men in the barracks had gotten, a chocolate bar, a tin of sardines, something like that. Still, that misshapen package didn't look like it would be any of that.

He unwrapped it slowly, and just sat there, staring at the marionette, handcarved, jointed, strings and crossbars and all, dressed in a tiny clown's outfit, in RAF blue with white; it didn't take much imagination to recognize the hand-painted face on the clown as the one that its maker wore, complete to the sardonic expression. A tiny carved dog with a ruffled collar, attached to the clown's hand with a shoestring leash completed the project. He raised his incredulous eyes to meet those blue-green, ever so knowing ones, seeing that same self-depreciating grin as on the small wooden man sitting in his lap, "thought you might remember 'ow to work one a those; give you an opportunity to make one a us dance to your tune, anyway," and he had to laugh at that sly acknowledgement of the gap that lay between them. Somehow, later in his bunk staring at the ceiling, Kinch thought maybe that gap didn't seem quite so wide, so important after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I read once that war brings out the best and the worst of a person, or maybe just allows the best and the worst to become more readily apparent. It would certainly appear that is the way of it with our Command Team from Stalag 13.


End file.
